


Compersion

by BrighteyedJill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Post Reichenbach, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 01:56:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After The Fall, John and Lestrade find that love’s not halved in the sharing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compersion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xtinethepirate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xtinethepirate/gifts).



> Thanks to jaune_chat and redandglenda for their beta help.

_**Compersion:** the feeling of joy associated with seeing a loved one love another_

 

**John: one year after The Fall**

John paused with his fingers over the keyboard. “The Baskerville case—what was the name of that pub we stayed at?”

“Key and Cross. Or Keyed Cross. Crossed Keyes. Something like that.” Lestrade set down the paper he’d been reading and peered at John over the top of his glasses. “Why? You planning a dirty weekend in Dartmoor?”

“No.” John managed a brief smile. “I know I changed the name when I wrote the blog post.”

“You changing it back for the book, then?”

“No. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.” John closed his laptop to banish the words he’d written about the case—words he’d read a hundred times. 

Lestrade set his glasses down on the coffee table, which was stacked haphazardly with books and paperwork, but not nearly as messy as it had been in Sherlock’s lifetime. “You don’t owe anyone anything, John. If you don’t want to publish your stories, don’t do it.”

“I want to.” John shook his head. “I have to. Anything that might convince people I’m right, I have to try.”

“I know.” Lestrade pushed himself up from the couch and shuffled to the kitchen. “Tea, then.”

John stared at his closed laptop until Lestrade brought two piping hot cups back to the couch, and motioned him over. John settled himself next to Lestrade, taking comfort from the familiar, homey smell of aftershave mingling with oolong. 

“Is it just the Baskerville story?” Lestrade asked. “I know it hasn’t been easy up until now, but I thought the Baskerville case would be straightforward, at least.”

“It’s not the case itself.” John wrapped his hands around the tea cup, letting the warmth seep into his fingers. “I just want to keep the memory of everything else. The real memory, not the account the public gets.”

“There’s plenty you never shared on your blog. Anything that might land you in jail, for example.”

“True enough.” John hid a smile at Lestrade’s exasperated sigh. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell you any of that. I tried to edit myself out of the blog posts, for the most part. People wanted to read about his brilliance, after all, not about me.”

“You’d be surprised,” Lestrade muttered, but John forged ahead.

“I worry that I lost all memory of where I fit into it. I remember that week, I was so angry at him. He was such…” John found his grip tightening on the delicate china as his body remembered the tension his old flatmate’s infuriating behaviour had caused.

“I know.” Lestrade settled a hand on John’s knee. “I could’ve punched him myself, after what he did to you.”

“But that’s what I remember best: the angry bits.” John returned his tea cup to its saucer with a clatter. “Sitting in that churchyard fuming, and yelling at him about bloody PTSD after that ‘experiment’ of his. I don’t remember anything about the drive down from London, or even the night we spent at the pub after the case was solved.”

“That’s no mystery. I had the room next door.” Lestrade took a sip of tea. “I remember some very energetic noises coming from your room.”

“But I’ve lost that part! I bet it’s a bloody good part, too.” John scrubbed his hand over his face. “I have so few memories of him, comparatively. Only two years. When pieces of them start slipping away, I—“

“You remember what’s important.” Lestrade captured John’s hands in his and held them. “I do, too.”

John looked at Lestrade’s hands covering his. He could feel the strength in them: strength he’d been leaning on for months. “You had years with him before I came along.”

“Yes,” Lestrade said slowly. “Years of being insulted at crime scenes and soothing witnesses’ hurt feelings.”

“I mean before that.” John knew he was treading dangerous ground here, ground they’d avoided by unspoken agreement, but he needed to hear. He raised his eyes to meet Lestrade’s. “When you were together.”

“That was a long time ago.” Lestrade let go of John’s hands. “I was a different man back then. Sherlock was, too.”

“I’m losing him.” John caught Lestrade’s wrist as he tried to pull away. “Memory does that—the brain does that, but I’m not ready.” His chest rose and fell with shallow breath, and he held onto Lestrade like an anchor. “I’m not ready.”

“I know.” Lestrade wrapped an arm around John and drew him close. “It’s not fair.”

“I can remember shouting at him in the kitchen about swapping lye for fairy liquid, but I can’t remember what it felt like when he kissed me the last time.”

Lestrade pressed his lips to John’s cheek. “I’m sorry.”

John closed his eyes. He relaxed into the comfort of Lestrade’s embrace for a moment before realizing his selfishness. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—“ He tried to sit up, but Lestrade held him in place. 

“No. Sherlock deserves to be remembered. We may be the two best qualified to do it, you realize.”

John nodded against Lestrade’s shoulder. 

“It’s funny how the worst memories can be the strongest ones.” Lestrade chuckled, and John could feel the sound reverberate in his chest. “I remember holding him on the filthy floor in that awful bedsit he had on Montague Street. He was so damn thin, I could feel every one of his ribs. He hadn’t bathed in at least a week. He had the sweats, and his skin was so clammy.”

“Withdrawal.” John could picture it clearly: Sherlock addict-thin, and Lestrade frantic with worry.

Lestrade nodded. “He said every cruel, nasty-minded thing he could think of to get me to leave him alone.”

“He can think of quite a lot, I’d wager.”

“Yeah.” Lestrade turned to rest his forehead against John’s temple. “It hurt so much to be in love with him, at times. I know there are ten lazy afternoons in bed or late nights eating take-away for every day I spent helping him get clean, but that’s what I remember.”

John imagined them together, whole and hale after what they’d been through, enjoying a well-deserved domestic retreat, and felt the tension that had been gripping him thaw into an all-encompassing warmth. “You have so many memories. Years with him before I came along.”

“It’s alright.” Lestrade slowly pulled away. “Maybe I shouldn’t—“

“No, you should. I want to hear about it.” At Lestrade’s doubtful expression, he leaned forward and laid his hand on Lestrade’s knee. “I am glad that you had each other, back then. I don’t like to think of either of you hurting somewhere I can’t help.”

“John.” Lestrade closed the distance between them to plant a lingering kiss on John’s lips, and came back smiling.

“Go on.” John kicked off his shoes and settled onto the couch. “Tell me something else.”  
\--

**Lestrade: two years after the fall**

Lestrade dragged himself up the stairs, cursing every last bit of paperwork at the Yard. When he reached the bedroom, he eased the door open as smoothly as he could in a flat where everything creaked. 

John stirred beneath the covers. “Sherlock?”

“No,” Lestrade said softly. He unwound his muffler and shrugged off his coat. “Just me.”

“Greg.” John dragged a hand down over his face. “Sorry. Half asleep.”

“It’s alright.” Lestrade offered a quick smile. Being mistaken for a mutual ex might have been awkward in another relationship, but he knew that every time he caught a glimpse of a tall, curly-haired figure out of the corner of his eye, he still felt a pang of longing. He shucked off his shirt and trousers and hurried into the warm bed.

“Sorry,” John said again. He gave Lestrade a firm kiss. “You’re freezing. Come on.” He rolled over and let Lestrade embrace him, like a conveniently warm, well-muscled hot water bottle.

Lestrade tucked his chin against John’s bare shoulder. “You say his name sometimes. When you’re sleeping.”

“Do I?”

“I’d rather you dream about him than have nightmares.”

“How do you know they’re not nightmares?”

“Because of how you wake up.” Lestrade trailed his hand down to rest on the front of John’s pants, where his cock made a hard outline against the fabric. When John tensed in his arms, Lestrade quickly planted a kiss on his temple. “Come on, John. It’s not as if I don’t dream of him, too.”

John pushed his hips up into Lestrade’s touch, and Lestrade obligingly drew his knuckles down the length of John’s erection. John pressed his arse back against Lestrade, providing delightful friction. 

“Tell me. About the two of you together.” Lestrade dropped the words in John’s ear, and was rewarded with a full-body shudder. He felt a burst of the mad adrenalin that came with the risky pursuit of a clue; he hadn’t often experienced that feeling without Sherlock. “Only if you want,” he added quickly.

John leaned back into Lestrade. “You know what he’s like.”

“Not with you.” Lestrade could remember Sherlock’s body, yes, and the way Sherlock had moved in his bed, and the feel of his mouth, but he would have been different with John. And he knew the feel of John’s body, the deep, satisfied noise he made when he came, but Sherlock had surely known a different way to please him. And in any case, Lestrade might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb. “It’s not as if I never thought about it.” 

“Greg, you filthy bastard.” John craned his neck to meet Lestrade’s eyes, but Lestrade could tell by the amusement in his expression that John’s curiosity ran along similar channels. “Go on, then.”

Lestrade wrapped his fingers around the outline of John’s cock. “The two of you together, it’s enough to melt some brain cells. Him spread out beneath you, trying to drag you up for a kiss while you suck his cock. Or up against the wall, you bent over and braced with your trousers around your ankles while he fucks you.”

“Christ,” John groaned. He reached up to grip Lestrade’s shoulder. 

Lestrade delved his hand into John’s pants to grasp his bare cock. “Tell me.”

“He’s like a whirlwind. Those mad long legs. His hands—I swear he knows a special martial art that involves finding erogenous zones.” 

Lestrade trailed his thumb over the crown of John’s cock, making his hips jerk. “He liked to touch you?”

“Every time was like a new exploration. I could tell he was cataloguing me—everything, really. The way he took my clothes off—every time, he’d find something new. He liked to make me hold onto the headboard, so he could take his time.”

Lestrade drew back, keeping his hand wrapped around John, and moved to kneel between his legs. “Show me.”

With a sharp exhale, John budged up on the bed and wrapped his hands around the wooden slats on the headboard. The muscles of his bare chest and legs stood out enticingly, framing the pants that still hid John’s hard cock as Lestrade stroked it. John dropped his head back against the pillows and seemed to be fighting to even out his breath. 

“He must have liked to look at you like this,” Lestrade said. “Didn’t he?”

John nodded, then pressed his lips together as he watched Lestrade drag his pants down his legs and toss them away. 

Lestrade sat back on his heels, admiring the flush that ran down John’s chest and up his cheeks. His erection stood at perfect attention, wet at the tip where Lestrade’s thumb had smeared pre-come. Though Lestrade had seen John laid bare like this a hundred times, it hadn’t felt like this before, with the memory of Sherlock crackling between them like electricity.

“What else?” Lestrade asked. 

“He’d watch me. Like a bloody camera, recording everything.” John’s hips twitched, pushing his erection up into empty air. “Experimenting with what combination of his mouth and his fingers could make me come the fastest.”

“Ever the scientist.” Lestrade snatched the lube from the nightstand and drizzled some on his fingers. “And what did he learn from those experiments?”

“He learned I’m not as bloody helpless as I look.” John hooked an ankle under Lestrade’s arm and pulled him down to sprawl on top of John. 

“Good on you.” Lestrade grinned against John’s thigh, picturing the surprise on Sherlock’s face when his carefully controlled experiment started making demands. When he glanced up at John, he found an answering grin. 

Without taking his eyes from John, Lestrade opened his mouth and sucked in the head of John’s cock. Slowly, deliberately, he swallowed John’s length, until his nose was pressed to John’s belly. 

“Good,” John said, a bit breathlessly. “He had to practice this.” He loosed a hand from the headboard to drag through Lestrade’s short hair. “You know how tenacious he is. Kept trying and trying, until he was an expert.”

Lestrade could imagine it easily: Sherlock lean and lithe, a determined gleam in his eye as he learned to repress his gag reflex. Lestrade swallowed around John’s cock, prompting a sharp hiss of breath. He followed that move with a gentle slide of his lubed finger into John’s hole. John spread his legs further, and his hand moved to clutch Lestrade’s shoulder. 

“Please,” John whispered.

Lestrade screwed his finger further into John as he slid his mouth up and down the length of his shaft. John opened for him so easily that he soon added a second finger. He could almost see Sherlock, with his sharp eyes fixed on John in moments like this, cataloguing every shudder, every sigh. 

Lestrade bent his fingers a little, searching for the spot he knew would turn John desperate. When John’s fingers dug hard into his shoulder, he knew he’d hit it. He worked his fingers faster into John, wrapped his other hand around John’s spit-slick erection, and swirled his tongue around the head of John’s cock before pulling his mouth free. 

“He learned you so well,” he said softly as John writhed beneath him. 

“Yes,” John panted. He pushed desperately against Lestrade’s hands, seeking more, but never took his eyes off Lestrade. 

“He had to learn every way possible to give you pleasure. He only ever put in this much effort when something truly mattered to him.” Lestrade remembered so well the fierce interest Sherlock displayed in John everywhere they went; the kind of interest he only ever showed in cases. “He needed you like he needed the work.”

“Please!” John abandoned his grip on the headboard to clutch at Lestrade.

In that moment, Lestrade knew the exquisite satisfaction Sherlock had felt in earning this man’s love, and felt a wave of powerful gratitude for what Sherlock had given to John. He gave into John’s demands, then, stroking him fast and firm, in the way he knew would bring the end, and sliding his fingers mercilessly inside him. 

“Greg!” With a strangled cry and a full-body shudder, John spilled his release and slumped against the bed.

Lestrade sat back, revelling in a sight Sherlock had seen many times, but Lestrade hadn’t appreciated in quite this way until tonight. 

An instant later Lestrade found himself sprawled on his back as John toppled him. He covered Lestrade’s mouth with kisses as he wrapped both hands around Lestrade’s desperate erection. It took only a few strokes before Lestrade spent himself between them. Then it was Lestrade’s turn to pant helplessly, while John fetched a towel to clean them up. 

When they were both settled under the covers again, Lestrade laid his head against John’s chest. “I hope you know how much he loved you.”

“It’s hard to remember, sometimes.” John’s hand found Lestrade’s in the dark, and he twined their fingers together. “Thank you.”  
\--

**Sherlock: three years after The Fall**

It was a risk, to be so close, but Sherlock judged it necessary. He had to see for himself. Three bitterly cold mornings he’d stood in front of a table of books. Lestrade had walked by him seven times in total, but never once glanced at the ancient, bearded and be-spectacled street vendor. On the fourth morning, Lestrade rushed out of the door to 221 Baker Street, still pulling on his gloves, and strode quickly north, past Sherlock’s table. 

“Greg!” John burst out of the doorway: no coat, his trainers untied.

Lestrade turned right away, tensed for danger, but he relaxed when he saw the mobile in John’s hand.

John’s hurried footsteps brought them together just past the book-laden table. “You’ll need this.” John held out the phone. “See, I’ve told you, if you’re always in a rush, you’ll miss the nicest parts.”

Lestrade took John’s bare hands in his gloved ones and held them together. “Your advice hasn’t steered me wrong yet.”

“It seemed to work last night.”

Lestrade drew John in by his hands and pressed a firm kiss to his lips. “I love you.”

“See you at lunch, yeah?”

“Yeah. Now get back inside. Running about without a coat, and you a doctor.”

“Maybe you are the sensible one.”

“Long-suffering, at least.” Lestrade gave John’s hands a last squeeze and pulled away. 

John stood staring after Lestrade, arms folded across his chest and hands tucked into his armpits, while Sherlock stared. His brother’s information had been right, then. Sherlock had been foolish to hope he’d been wrong. 

The temptation to label his state as anger passed quickly, and instead Sherlock took stock of his emotional response; it shared many similarities with happiness, he found. John and Lestrade had found emotional support and physical connection in one another. Sherlock thought again of Lestrade’s hands grasping John’s, and of their matching grins. He could not give either of them joy, not now, but he found pleasure gaining a small toehold within him at the knowledge they had it from each other. 

When Lestrade rounded the corner at the end of the street, John turned back towards the flat. 

Sherlock dropped his gaze to his rows of books. He heard John’s steps pass the table, then stop. There was a dog-eared memoir of a colonel who’d survived the Battle of Maiwand on display. Perhaps that had caught his attention. Sherlock looked up to find blue, blue eyes staring right through his disguise.

“Sherlock,” John breathed.  
\--

**Epilogue: four years after The Fall**

Sherlock slept in the middle, most nights. John often remarked how absurd this was, as Sherlock was more prone than anyone to jumping out of bed and swanning off to play the violin or compose a pamphlet or just sit on the couch naked, thinking. But whereas before John might have woken to find the bed cold, he now had only to bridge the empty space to find the comfort of Lestrade’s arms.  
\--

Sherlock slept in the middle, most nights. Lestrade had learned to reach over or around Sherlock’s untidy sprawl to rest a hand on John’s shoulder or his thigh, or his very fine arse. Even when the blackout curtains denied any glimmer of streetlight spill, he liked a tactile reminder of his good fortune, that in restoring one love to his life, the other had grown stronger. Even when he and John both slung arms over Sherlock to tangle together, they received only half-hearted protests. Those nights, Sherlock mysteriously did not disappear to run urgent experiments, but slept the night through.  
\--

Sherlock slept in the middle, most nights. He’d been prone to sleeping on his belly, but now he preferred his back, which provided the easiest access to both his bedmates. Some nights, he would turn on his side, first this way, then that, observing Lestrade’s deep breathing or John’s eye movement as he dreamed. Tonight, Sherlock had withdrawn to perch at the edge of the bed, and watched until they claimed the space he’d abandoned, as if he’d left a gravitational hole that they could only fill together. 

“Come back to bed,” Lestrade muttered without opening his eyes. “You’re like a bloody gargoyle.”

John dragged his eyes open and made a wordless, grabbing gesture. 

“There’s no room,” Sherlock whispered.

“And he calls himself a detective,” Lestrade slurred. John giggled in response. 

They moved far enough apart to leave a perfect warm space for Sherlock to fit himself into, and when he joined him, they wrapped their arms around him, creating a single, seamless whole.


End file.
